


Constellations

by giantflyingskelesnurtle



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Trans Sherlock, Translock, Unilock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-07
Updated: 2015-05-06
Packaged: 2018-03-21 16:26:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3699059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/giantflyingskelesnurtle/pseuds/giantflyingskelesnurtle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The last time Sherlock saw John Watson, he was a cheerful med student, dreaming of the military. The last time John saw Sherlock Holmes, he was a pre-T chem student who still used ace bandages as a chest binder. </p><p>They went their separate ways years ago, but now the world is giving them a second chance; and maybe this time, things will turn out right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Again

It had been exactly seven years, five months, and twenty two days since John last saw Sherlock Holmes.

It had been six years, eleven months, and thirteen days since their last phone call. Five years, three months, and six days since their last letter. Four years, eight months, and eighteen days since John started having trouble recalling Sherlock’s voice.

And it had been one year, one month, and three days since John last thought of him.

But John wasn’t counting.

•

It had been exactly seven years, five months, and twenty two days since Sherlock last saw John Watson.

It had been six years, eleven months, and thirteen days since their last phone call. Five years, three months, and six days since their last letter. Three years, nine months, and two days since Sherlock realized John had probably forgotten what his voice sounded like by now.

And it had been three days, two hours, and twenty four seconds since Sherlock last thought of him.

But Sherlock wasn’t counting, either.

•

On the subject of waiting, and time passing – which time was always doing, that nasty little bugger – it had been a full year since John moved back to London, today on this particular date. He thought, quite logically, that the best way to spend the day might be to finally seek out that flatshare he’d been pondering. His chances of actually getting a flatmate were slim (seriously, who’d want to live with a limping ex-soldier who can’t land a decent job and may or may not have PTSD? Christ…), made even slimmer by his decidedly sour disposition and low temper. Still. Everything’s worth a shot, isn’t it?

“Until that shot ends up in your shoulder,” he muttered, and limped out the door and down the stairs.

•

Sherlock liked to think that he was entirely clean, but there were certain things that he did that probably still counted as drugs. The cigarettes and nicotine patches, obviously. But also the coffee, the DayQuil, the occasional drink (Sherlock wasn’t really a fan of that last one, given how much worse it made you feel only hours after the pleasant buzz faded) – all were drugs in one way or another. Even after rehab, Sherlock was ever the addict.

He dealt with this by becoming addicted to other things. Anyone around him could see this. He threw himself into crime solving with enthusiasm verging on obsession; he created experiments even when there was nothing to experiment on. He would repeat the same experiments year after year, sometimes, changing tiny variables each time even though he knew he would reach the same conclusion.

This is what he decided to do today.

Mrs. Hudson was glad for it. Even though he only moved into her flat a week ago, she had picked up on a few key things about his personality. One of them was his addiction to addictions. She understood that he needed certain things to distract him from his overactive brain, and as long as he chose the harmless ones, like pointless experiments, she was happy.

So with a few words exchanged, he made his way out the door and over to St. Bart’s, where he knew Molly had some labs and fresh cadavers awaiting him. By the time he reached the hospital, some of his numbers had changed. It had now been exactly twelve minutes and thirty eight seconds since he last thought of John Watson. And, although he didn’t know it, and didn’t at all suspect it, it would be forty six minutes, and fifty seconds, until he saw John Watson again.

•

John didn’t know how long it had been since he last saw Mike Stamford (five years, seven months, nine days) but he knew that it had been a while, long enough for the walk over to St. Bart’s from the park in which they’d met to be chock full of awkward silences. He was so preoccupied with thinking up rubbish to say to this old acquaintance that he completely forgot to ask what the name of this “old mate of mine who’s looking for a flatshare” was. It was a bit of an oversight on his part, which led to John walking through the open lab door and seeing a man he didn’t recognize (tall, slim, angular, white with black hair, attractive) bent over a lab table, wondering why this stranger seemed so familiar, like grasping at straws without really realizing he was grasping in the first place. The man’s face was down. He was holding a pipette.

“Is that you, Molly?” he asked. And John knew the voice.

Not entirely, however. He didn’t recognize it. He was sure he’d never heard this particular voice before. But it reminded him, perhaps, of another voice he’d heard once. He wasn’t sure.

“Nah, just me,” Mike answered. “I brought someone here to see you, though.”

“I’m busy.”

“Well, I can see that. But this bloke wants to talk to you.”

The man sighed. He put down his pipette. His eyes started at John’s shoes and slowly swept up his body, eventually making their way to his face. When they did, they stopped there, and John’s eyes stopped too, and maybe his heart, just a little bit, because he was staring at a face he had not seen for exactly seven years, five months, and twenty-two days.

The silence was words enough, until Mike coughed and Sherlock blinked and everyone thought that something really ought to be said at some point.

“Sh…” John seemed unwilling to finish the name, in case he was wrong, in case this wasn’t Sherlock, just a man who looked very much like him, but he steeled himself and finished: “Sherlock?”

“John.” The response came almost immediately. Sherlock’s eyes were wide, disbelieving. John knew his face probably looked similar.

They stared for what seemed like an eternity. John’s thought process was rocketing through several different areas of shock, including my-god-I’d-forgotten-about-him, how-could-I-have-forgotten-about-him?, I-can’t-believe-I’ve-run-into-him-again, oh-god-he-looks-so-different, I-can’t-believe-this-is-the-same-Sherlock-I-knew, and several others. Sherlock’s mind was also racing, but only down one particular path: the one prominently labelled I-can’t-believe-I’m-really-seeing-him-again.

The space in between them became a thing just then: solid, fluid, gas, whichever, but tangible and real. It smelled of age and freshly opened wine. Both of them felt it, and stared through it at one another, and finally felt the sevenyears/fivemonths/twentytwodays as they really were: just waiting, for this, for now, for this meeting that neither had thought would ever really happen. But it had. And here they were.

The seconds creaked on with an awkward ache. There was so much to think and comprehend here, as they stared and breathed the same room of air. Finally, finally, John cracked into a grin. It was like breaking down a wall, cracking ice, cutting tightly bound cord. Sherlock could hardly contain himself.

“Oh my god,” John laughed, stepping over to properly look the man in the eyes.

“Indeed,” Sherlock said, as he returned the eye contact awkwardly and didn’t move besides, except to widen his smile. “It really is you, John Watson.”

“I haven’t seen you in… god, it must be seven years?” John was beaming at him, amazed, yet still shrouded in awkwardness. It had been a long time. They had both had long, complicated lives without each other. They’d hardly been past boyhood when they last parted. Now each could see the other’s weariness scrawled across his skin.

“Seven years,” Sherlock repeated. “I… didn’t expect I would ever see you again.”

From the corner of the room, Stamford coughed. “I take it you two know each other?”

“Yes,” Sherlock answered, while John laughed: “Know each other? We were best mates at University. Absolutely inseparable.”

“Quite,” Sherlock agreed. “We definitely were.”

Stamford knew that there was far more to it than that, for how else could he have explained the tangible thing between them that even now still lingered in the air?

He didn’t ask about it. It wasn’t his business to inquire into other people’s pasts. What’s theirs is theirs. He decided to make his leave.

“Well, I’ve got a seminar to teach,” he said, wandering towards the door. “And I guess I don’t have to give an introductions, do I?”

“See you round,” John said awkwardly, because what else can he say? Thank you for bringing me to someone I didn’t even realize I missed? Please don’t leave me alone with him now because I don’t know what to do now?

The door closed, and Sherlock Holmes found himself alone with John Watson, who, in turn, found himself alone with Sherlock Holmes.

There was another longish pause, during which they sort of half laughed; remembering how comfortable they used to be with one another, but still recognizing that they no longer knew each other at all.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” Sherlock asked suddenly.

John looked up, shocked at the question. “Er. What?”

“Which one was it?” Sherlock shuffled his feet discreetly, clearing his throat. “You were going into one of them. Where did you end up being deployed?”

“Oh – Afghanistan.” John was nearly relieved at the question. It gave them something to talk about. “It was Afghanistan.”

“How was it?”

“It was… well, rubbish, quite frankly,” John answered, and Sherlock chuckled hesitantly. John could tell the man’s not quite used to this sort of talk. Honestly, John wasn’t, either.

“And your service ended?”

“Prematurely,” John said. Quickly adding, “Invalided home.”

Another silence. “Ah.” Silence again.

It’s too late to keep it in anymore. John had to state the obvious. “You look…” He glanced up and down Sherlock’s body, who watched him with interest. John laughed, finally. “...different,” he finished.

To his relief, and to Sherlock’s, Sherlock smiled. “Yes,” he said. He had expected far worse adjectives. And in any case, “different” was an apt word to use.

“No, I mean–” John laughed again, this time harder. “I mean, you look great. Really, really great.”

Sherlock felt a jolt in the pit of his stomach. “I do?”

“Yes, of course you bloody do. You look very handsome.”

Despite himself, Sherlock couldn’t contain his nervous smile. “But also different,” he said.

“Yes. Also that.” John stood back, shaking his head and grinning. “I mean, I knew you would look like this by now, but I guess I couldn’t really conjure a picture of it in my mind. You look… you look like…”

“You can say it, John.”

“Oh, god, alright.” John shook his head again, as if he couldn’t believe he was saying this, which he almost couldn’t. “You look like a… a man.”

“Thank you.” Sherlock was far more pleased than he thought he’d be at hearing this. Who knew he’d been waiting to hear this sort of validation? It almost peeved him, the thought that hearing John Watson (seven year absent John Watson, friend of the past, never to be seen again John Watson) confirm something that was obvious, something that he already knew because anyone could see it, would make him feel so content.

John smiled a sheepish smile and quickly looked away. “You’re welcome,” he said. “Mate.”

Sherlock scoffed, and another silence followed. Sherlock didn’t expect this to be this awkward (although technically he never expected this reunion to actually happen) although he supposed it made sense. Once, they had been so close they could tell what the other was thinking without hearing them speak. Now they had lived seven years without each other and each had each resigned himself to never seeing the other again, yet here they were in a room together.

It’s a sad case, John reflected momentarily, when two mates who think they’ll never be parted are then parted, and by the time they get back together again they’re not the same men they once were.

Finally, Sherlock spoke.

“So…” he said slowly. “You’re here to share a flat with me.”

“How did you–” John stopped and his face cracked into a huge grin. “Still the super genius, I see.”

“Of course,” Sherlock scoffed indignantly. “What, did you think I’d suddenly become unintelligent without your constant presence?”

“No, I’m just pleasantly surprised,” John said. “Anyway. Yes, I did come for a flatshare - however the hell you knew that. So… what did you have in mind?”

Sherlock smiled a small smile, like the hesitant beginnings of a larger one. “I’ve got my eye on a lovely little spot on Baker Street. I did the landlady a favor some years back, so she gave me a deal on the place. Would you like to come look at it with me?”

“Well…” John turned his cane around in his hand, feeling the sweat of his palm on the handle. “I was about to go do the shopping when I ran into Mike. Can I meet you there instead?”

“Of course.” Sherlock put on his coat and started making his long strides towards the door. He could feel John’s eyes watching him, glancing at his body; so vastly different from when John had seen him last, and yet still the same body. The very same John had known all those years ago.

Sherlock walked out the door in his haste, paused, and came back through the doorframe. “The address is 221B Baker Street,” he said, and winked. Then, he left. John was alone.

It would be one hour, twelve minutes, and thirty seven seconds before they saw one another again; John arriving to meet Sherlock in the front of this new flat, after doing the shopping and various other things that had to get done. Neither took his mind off the other for even one of those seconds. Neither of them could have if he wanted to. And neither wanted to.

 


	2. Second Lines

While John was browsing the internet once, possibly years ago (possibly three years, two months, two days ago) he came across an online quiz entitled, “YOU MAY KNOW THE FIRST LINES, BUT HOW MANY OF THESE FAMOUS BOOKS CAN YOU NAME BY THEIR SECOND LINE?” which John thought he could probably do, since he’d read a lot of books in his life. But when he clicked on the link and took the quiz, he found that he was having a much harder time than he thought he would. Out of the twenty second lines, he could name only one.

After staring at these results, John began to wonder why it was that he couldn’t – why anyone couldn’t – name second lines as well as first lines. The immediate answer was obvious: the first line was the common quotation, of course. But then, why was that? Why did the quotation always end with the first line? Suddenly, still staring at his laptop in the dark, John understood. It’s because second lines are ugly. Second lines are awkward. First lines are beautiful, artfully crafted; the ending of the beginning. The second line is the awful but necessary bridge into the rest of it. Everyone loves looking at the ocean, and everyone loves swimming in it, but no one likes jumping in.

As John catches a cab to ride to 221B Baker Street (for the first time? First time of many? First and last time?) he knows, without a doubt, that this is the second line. Whatever happens next, it will be the second line. The questions is whether anything else will follow.

•

John honestly didn’t think he would ever see Sherlock again. It just didn’t seem like the universe would allow such a perfect story to be marred by continuation.

The way things were, John could keep this story perfectly preserved in his mind for years. Known once – in a perfect, brilliant blaze of light that would never lose its anecdotal value, even if John only ever told the story to himself. That was how he wanted to remember knowing Sherlock Holmes.

But there was a part of him that knew that things wouldn’t happen that way. They could, if the universe was merciful, but they probably wouldn’t. The thought made him want to cry out in anguish. No stories can ever end where they should. Every story gets a sequel, even when the ending is already perfect.

Another part of him, however, finds this thought enticing. Not just enticing, but necessary. As much as he wished that his life would follow a tasteful plot arch, he was only human in the end. He wanted to see Sherlock again more than he wanted to remember her. He had met Sherlock Holmes in a blaze of golden happening last week, and she had been the most amazing girl (most amazing person, full stop) he had ever known in either of his two decades of life. This part of him, the smaller part, knows with an almost giddy anticipation that he’ll certainly see her again. Sometimes, the universe is a much better author than we understand.

•

“You said that you used to know him?” Mrs. Hudson asks, and Sherlock finds her wording confusing.

Used to know?

Used to frequently associate with, maybe. Used to be close to, perhaps. But saying “used to know” implies no longer knowing. Even though it’s been years (lifetimes? minutes?) Sherlock never forgets details he has no reason to forget.

But this is a bit too much to explain out loud, so he says, “Yes.”

“When?”

“University.”

“Oh, that’s lovely.” She’s bustling around the room, all smiles. Sherlock is grateful to have company (see: distraction) as he waits for John’s arrival. Anything to take his mind off the waiting. “One of your old school friends! How nice, Sherlock, just lovely.”

“Yes, quite.”

Sherlock watches dust particles do their dances in the rectangular streams of sunlight. Dust has always been a particular interest of his – you can clean it up but you can’t make it; you can move it but you can’t put it back. He studies the edge of the light, where the dust disappears. He knows, of course, that it doesn’t actually disappear. It simply appears to do so. The entire room is full of these tiny particles (a gorgeous amalgamation of organic and non-organic matter) but only the ones with enough sunlight are visible to the naked eye. The rest, though very real, appear not to exist at all.

“What’s he like, Sherlock?” Mrs. Hudson asks as she fluffs off the curtains, which sends dust particles flying around in wild spirals. Sherlock wonders, would it be possible to deduce the movement that had occurred in a room based solely upon where the dust had settled? He’d have to look into it, later.

_Later._

What’s he like, Sherlock?

Will John be there later, or not?

And what _is_ he like?

“I suppose you’ll find out for yourself,” Sherlock says.

“Well, if you like him, Sherlock, then I’m sure I will.”

“Mm.”

John said he’d probably be two, three hours before showing up. It’s been two now, but Sherlock figures he’ll be later than he said. Still, Sherlock decides to head outside to wait for him.

You know. Just in case.

•

Upon picking up his screeching mobile, Sherlock groans. Normally, he wouldn’t even bother picking up. What does Mycroft even want, anyway?

Today, though he needs a distraction. His mind is a mess. Frankly, it’s embarrassing.

“What?” he snaps into the receiver.

“Oh, don’t be so upset, sister dear. I only meant to ask how things are going.”

Sherlock grimaces and instantly regrets picking up the phone.

“What do you mean?”

“Just checking up on you, Sherlock.”

God.

Sherlock rolls his eyes and wishes that Mycroft could see him doing so. “I don’t need you to check up on me, Mycroft.”

“I heard about your case last week.”

Sherlock moves in the manner of a ruffled bird and scowls into the phone. "That’s none of your business. How did you hear about it, anyway?”

“Oh, I have my ways. Word gets around quickly.”

“Well, it’s none of your business.” He considers hanging up, but thinks of something else to say. “I don’t want you meddling in my affairs.”

“I’m not meddling, Sherlock. Merely interested. Who was that young man, by the way?”

Sherlock goes silent for just too long.

“Sherlock?”

“His name was John,” Sherlock says. When he does, his voice sounds different. It sounds lower, quieter.

“John what?”

“I don’t know.”

“A fellow student?”

“I don’t know.” Sherlock blinks too fast until his eyes shut altogether. “He didn’t say. He seemed at university age. I don’t know if he goes here, though. He didn’t say.”

“Hm.”

Sherlock wants to punch his brother’s teeth out.

“I’ve got to study,” he says sharply. “I’ve got an exam tomorrow. Say hello to the Prime Minister for me when you’re out to tea with him.”

“Oh, don’t worry, sister, I always do.” He hears Mycroft’s smug grin in the second before he hangs up.

Sherlock tosses his phone onto the foot of his bed and falls backwards onto the mattress. His roommate is out at one of those obscure history lectures that she loves so much, which gives him the peace and quiet he so often covets. Today, though, the quiet is driving him insane. Today he’s stuck in an awful limbo between wanting to sort out his thoughts in silence and needing to drown them out with overstimulation. What he really needs is to not think at all, and that’s impossible.

Sherlock curls towards the wall as if he’s protecting something, which – in a way – he is. He’s curling up around the memory that’s taken a permanent residence in his brain. Last week, last week. Last week, he met a person, and there’s nothing interesting about that by itself, given that lots of people meet lots of people everyday. But.

Whatever it is, whatever it was that happened in his mind on that day, the memory is his. No one else is allowed to know or hold it like him. Even if he never figures out why this one encounter shines so brightly like no memory ever has, he can still cradle it like this – like he’s doing now – and feel its warmth seep into him, knowing that it belongs to him alone.

Sherlock knows he’ll see John again. Not because he wants to (this is what he tells himself) but because he needs answers. He needs solutions to this puzzle. In a standard calculator, the screen is split into two halves. The top half is where you input the problem, and the bottom half is where the calculator displays the answer; it’s like a dialogue. Question? Answer. Question? Answer. Order, cause and effect. Meeting John last week left him stranded squarely in the first row of digits (an expression waiting to become an equation). The next time they meet, Sherlock knows, they’ll be meeting on the other side of the calculation. They’ll be meeting in the second line.

•

When John arrives, he steps out to take Sherlock’s hand, and there’s a pause. It only lasts for a fraction of a second.

But it’s there.

Then it’s gone. John shakes Sherlock’s hand, and they both grin, but John is blinking too fast and Sherlock’s skin is cold.

“Mr. Holmes,” John says, nodding. He grins with a hint of grimacing, wondering if the humor of this faux-formality will come across.

“Sherlock, please,” Sherlock says, fast, too fast. He hesitates afterwards. Is John trying for some old familiarity through humor; a familiarity that may or may not still be there; or have they really become so distant that John is regressed to using professional titles?

Is that who he is now? Mr. Holmes?

Either way, he hopes desperately that he’s said the right thing.

John is hoping for the same.

“Shall we?” Sherlock says, and they walk inside.

Everything is wrong.

•

“This is… nice.” John means it. He hasn’t been in a flat this upscale since coming back to London, and he certainly hadn’t thought that he’d be facing the prospect of renting one anytime soon. “This could be very nice indeed.”

“Yes, er.” Like a slap, Sherlock notices every object out of place in the entire room. It’s a bit of a mess. A bit of a mess? The place looks like a fucking rubbish dump, you stupid man. Why didn’t you prepare better? “Of course, I can, er…” (He steps nimbly around the furniture, grabbing the first thing he sees and putting it… somewhere else.) “I can tidy things up, a bit, yes.”

John looks at him, and Sherlock sees him looking, and both of them look away.

“It’s fine,” John nearly coughs.

Mrs. Hudson comes in from the kitchen. “What do you think then, Dr. Watson? You like it well enough?”

“Yeah, well.” John scratches his neck, thinking. “It’s quite nice. Much more space than the flat I’ve got now.”

“Do you still enjoy the violin?” Sherlock asks.

John looks at him. “You still play?”

Sherlock bites his lip. “Of course.”

“Oh,” John says. He can’t think of anything else to say.

“I play the violin when I’m thinking. Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other, shouldn’t they?”

The statement is so absurd that John nearly laughs. The worst? Of all the crazy things Sherlock does, he considers his violin playing to be the worst? But John sees the look on Sherlock’s face, and he remembers. Seven years. Five months. Twenty two days.

None of the things he had known so deeply about this man are necessarily true anymore.

So he says, “I don’t mind.”

Sherlock replies, “Good.”

And they stand there with dust dancing between them, in and out of light, in and out of being, in and out. In and out and gone again.

•

John tripped over her.

He went flying towards the floor.

(Sherlock jolted as someone tripped over him and went flying towards the floor.)

Sherlock said nothing, but watched in shock as the man hit the carpet. There was a thud, and then there were more sounds – ugh, hmm, shuffle, shit. Sherlock watched.

John hands and knees stung, but he didn’t let that stop him from thinking, who the fuck? The tiniest thread of anger wove itself through his breath as he turned. Who the fuck just sits on the library floor like that, right in front of the shelves? Who the–

(It’s been two weeks now.)

Sherlock watched John rise. He knew who it was. It had been two weeks since.

Who the fuck?

John turned, and found himself faced with the second line.

•

When John arrived at 221B, he stepped out to take Sherlock’s hand, and there was a pause. It lasted a second and it lasted too long. Two hands hovered in empty air together.

When they closed upon each other, two hands became one foot, crashing down at the top of the stairs; expecting one step more but finding only air; expecting only an inch of space between them but finding seven years, five months, and twenty two days.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, everyone! Thanks for reading my new story thing. I hope you all like it! Feedback is much appreciated.


End file.
